


Welcome To New York

by Satine89



Category: Fake News RPF, Last Week Tonight With John Oliver (TV)
Genre: I know this probably sucks, Morning Show AU, News Media, Other, Self-Insert, basically just a fucking romcom for some reason
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 11:22:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10570287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satine89/pseuds/Satine89
Summary: After putting in your time in college, you finally got an internship with a news station in New York! Sure, it's morning news, nothing at all like the satirical shows you watched and admired and dreamed about in college, but you're in New York now. Anything can happen... like you dating a man you wrote a really crazy letter to once. That can't end badly.Welcome to New York, YN.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really just writing this on a whim, to be fair. I have no idea if it's any good, as this is the first reader insert I've ever done. I got in the mood to make a more modern version of a 90s romcom (with my favorite man of course), and out popped the first chapter of this silly little story. Hopefully you find it frothy and fun!
> 
> Each chapter will have a title from a song lyric; I'm working on putting together an ideal playlist. The title of the fic and the chapter title both come from Taylor Swift's "Welcome to New York" (though I think Ryan Adams' version is more thematically appropriate for this fic).

_ November 2010 _

 

You couldn't suppress the delighted squeal that rose from you while you and your dorm mates sat in your room.

 

Normally, you wouldn't ever make such an embarrassing noise. You were one of the more sedate members of your dorm, always getting your homework done when everyone else slept in, only going to parties as a designated driver or a sober chaperone, and generally behaving like that rare beast, the adult. Tonight, however, your roommate managed to tempt you with a full bottle of Captain Morgan, a liter of Coke, and the promise of a night off from your dense Political Science 203 paper on Supreme Court trends.

 

Hence the squealing.

 

Thankfully, it was just you, your roommate Mary, and one of the girls from the next room over, Megan. Mary, like you, was known for being more steadfast and studious; Megan wasn't much of a drinker, but she sure loved her parties. Mary, also drunk, giggled at the noise you made, while Megan snorted.

 

“You seem… really into this show tonight,” Megan chuckled.

 

You took another deep drink from your pink tumbler, too far gone to feel ashamed of yourself. Drunk you had much less inhibitions and much less shame than sober you. Mary had seen you Iike this before - the night you two met, back when you moved in together in August, you both shared a bottle of vodka while playing Never Have I Ever, and it eased a lot of the initial awkward feelings associated with moving in with a stranger - and thought nothing of it, brushing some long brown hair out of her face. “Oh, Megan doesn't know?”

 

“I don't think Megan’s ever watched TV with us,” you slurred, pointing at a small tube TV. The blues were a bit jagged and bleeding, but it was your TV, and had been since high school. You were one of the few on your dormitory floor with a television, and you were the only one with a DVD player, so most people overlooked your TV’s deficiencies in order to watch football games, old movies rented from the college library, or… other things.

 

You were a huge fan of all kinds of political television. If you were working on something in your dorm, chances were you had one eye on your paper and the other on whatever CNN was blathering about. You were a Political Science major, after all, almost finished with your Bachelors and soon to apply for the Masters program. But unlike a lot of the stuffed shirt theorists and smarmy future politicians in your classes, you found yourself most in love with political satire. Sure, you wanted to be a great speechwriter one day, writing words for visionary leaders… but a tiny part of you wanted to also be a part of that world, the world of outsiders looking in and taking the piss out of it all. 

 

No satire was better than The Daily Show, in your opinion. And when you weren't plastered, you could keep your feelings about a certain correspondent well under wraps. Most people knew you didn't like talking about dating or relationships or hot guys; you were guarded about your crushes. 

 

Having had three rum and cokes at this point, you no longer cared about being guarded in any way. 

 

“Do you know who that man is?” you asked.

 

Megan looked at him. “He looks like a weird old Harry Potter.”

 

“How dare you!” you exclaimed. Your inner drama kid was showing, and Mary just giggled harder at your dramatic nature. “That is John Oliver, the most beautiful man alive.”

 

“...well, no wonder no one's had any luck dating you,” Megan noted. “You're into the older IT guy look.”

 

“Shut uuuuuup,” you muttered darkly. “Have you heard him  _ talk _ ?” 

 

All of you paused to listen to him speak - you, in your bombed state, felt your chest tighten and your body tingle listening to John. His voice was… how did you describe it to Mary one night… liquid sex. As a descriptor, it made no sense, but somehow made  _ all the sense. _

 

“...so you like nearsighted comedians with British accents?” Megan asked, confused.

 

“I think YN likes dadbod,” Mary admitted.

 

You turned crimson. “He's super intelligent! Like, he has this podcast, and it's all about current events and -”

 

“It's cool, YN, everyone had different tastes,” Megan said calmly. “Yours just… don't come out frequently? I've never seen you act like this.”

 

“We have been drinking,” Mary reminded Megan.

 

“I don't think I've ever seen you  _ blush _ ,” Megan continued, though. You, in response, blushed harder. Yeah, you had a rather massive crush on a cast member of a political show. You even remembered exactly how it started - two years ago, in your dorm, you saw John giving a speech about Britain's Fallen Soldiers on the show. You both couldn't stop laughing at the clip… and found yourself drawn to John’s magnetic sense of coolness and unflappable style. From that point on, you were gone.

 

Not that you imagined anything could happen. For one thing, you lived in California. He very clearly did not. Geography, you heartless bitch.

 

“...you know what you could do?” Mary offered.

 

“About what?” you asked. You'd missed most of John's bit at this point. You'd have to watch it later on the Daily Show website, privately. Oh darn.

 

“You have a crush on this guy, right?” Mary asked. “Or his voice, at least. Megan, she called his voice -”

 

“Mary I swear to fucking god -”

 

“- Liquid sex,” Mary finished. Megan full-on guffawed as you turned bright crimson.

 

“...Tell me you wouldn't want that whispering in your ear,” you responded, “as you were being -”

 

“ - you have a crush on this guy!” Megan covered up your crudity expertly. She clearly wasn't drinking her rum and coke. El Scandolo! “And I'm sure a very active fantasy life involving him.”

 

“...you could say that,” you say in a low voice. You were a bit miffed about being cut off, but covered it up by drinking some more.

 

“And you're good looking and smart,” Megan pointed out.

 

You wrinkled your nose. “My pasty ass is not good looking.”

 

“Better looking than him,” Mary said bluntly.

 

“I SWEAR TO GOD MARY I WILL TELL EVERYONE ABOUT THAT LIZARD MAN YOU -”

 

“BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH IS NOT A LIZARD!”

 

“YN, please focus,” Megan said sternly. She was taking whatever she was proposing very seriously. Or maybe it just seemed that way because she was sober and your brain had been on a great drunk vacation for about three hours at this point. “Why don't you write him a fan letter? Just like… say you really like what he does on the show, share some anecdotes - Oh god what are you doing.”

 

You leapt up pretty much the second she said “letter” and grabbed some paper from your desk. The episode actually airing had been long forgotten, and you snatched a pen up from the desk as well, immediately beginning to wrote once you sat back down on the ground.

 

“I'm gonna declare my love!” you told her. “Just like you said.”

 

“...maybe you should wait until you're sober,” Megan offered.

 

Mary snickered. “Oh man, you're leading with  _ You don't know it but you're fucking handsome as shit _ ?” 

 

“You should wait until you're sober,” Megan insisted, but you cut her off with a hand wave.

 

“No, you're so right, Megan,” you told her. “And there's no time like today and now to tell someone you want to blow them.”

 

“...holy Jesus,” Megan mumbled out, peering over the paper. “...oh dear, you actually wrote ‘liquid sex’.”

 

Mary was reduced to constantly giggling as you filled about four sheets of paper with various come-ons, gushing about clips you could remember, speech that veered into the mildly pornographic, and some actual sincerity in there about how good he was at maintaining a level of outrage on his chosen subjects while not diluting their power with humour (“where did THAT come from?” Megan asked, suddenly confused about how a PoliSci major could analyze political discourse). And, against her protests, you put the letter in an envelope during the Colbert Report, stamped it, and then ran out of your dorm to drop it in the mailbox. 

 

It wasn't until the next afternoon, hung over and looking at the pictures Mary took on her phone of your completely inappropriate and almost incoherently ridiculous letter, that you realized you'd made a huge mistake.

 

\---

 

_ July 2014 _

 

Your new apartment was small and lonely.

 

You'd managed what much of your family didn't believe possible - you got your Masters degree. You managed to double-major in Political Science and Journalism for your advanced degree, and were even on camera for the college’s news production team during your final year. That little bit of information made it possible for you to get an internship in the news capital of the world - New York City!

 

...okay, your internship was with the fluff-tastic morning show Wake Up New York. It was something, though! A paid something, even!

 

You just didn't realize how weird it would feel, standing in your apartment with boxes of stuff around you, a suitcase of clothes at your feet, and no one but you to put it all away. You'd been living with Mary and Megan in a house off-campus for the past three years, and while you didn't expect them to follow you at all… it was still weird not having them around.

 

You barely had time to sit down on one of the few open things in the loft apartment - a couch - before your phone started ringing, the sweet strains of “Danger” exploding through the empty apartment. You jumped up in shock before scrambling for your pocket. 

 

Speak of the devil. You answered the FaceTime call, and in an instant, the freckled visage of Mary popped onto your screen.

 

“You're there!” she cried.

 

“I'm here!” you responded back. “Literally just finished helping the movers get all my things up here.”

 

“Let me see!”

 

You obliged, walking around the apartment. Everything was sparse and completely unfurnished, but Mary still oohed and aahed over the surroundings. She also mentioned how crazy it was that you got a loft apartment in New York for your rent, but you reminded Mary that you lived on the 39th floor of a converted tenement in a not-great part of town.

 

“It's close to work, though,” you mentioned to her.

 

“Just carry a knife with you,” she said.

 

“I will. How's Santa Monica?” 

 

“Boring without you,” Mary sighed. “Megan’s  doing well, though. She just got some of her poems published in a local magazine. She's hoping that she can move to bigger publications.” 

 

“Please send me a copy,” you told her. “I'll send you my address.”

 

“I do miss you,” Mary insisted. “When will your first episode be? I want to watch!”

 

“I don't think you can watch a local New York morning show in Santa Monica,” you laughed. “But my first day is tomorrow. I'm not supposed to be on camera anyways, it’d be super boring.”

 

“Hey, you never know. Maybe they'll need a cute replacement for the weather person?” Mary thought aloud.

 

“I'm just the intern. I'm gonna be a coffee wench.” 

 

“Be the best coffee wench ever!”

 

“I will… after I put away some stuff.”

 

“Have a good night!”

 

“You too dear.”

 

When she hung up, that wave of loneliness hit you again. Mary wouldn't be peeking her head around the corner to tell you to quiet down. Megan wouldn't be writing poetry in the breakfast nook. It would just be you and the traffic noises from thousands of feet below.

 

You sighed, putting your phone back in your jeans pocket. You figured you might as well unpack some shit.

 

\---

 

You arrived early the next morning at the CBS studio where “Wake Up New York” was being filmed, dressed as professionally as possible. You thought the black and white 60s-style dress, paired with low black heels and a pillbox hat, would make you look the part of the intelligent new writers’ room addition.

 

But everyone else in your position was wearing jeans.

 

“It's no problem,” said your assigned “workplace buddy”. Thankfully, no one laughed about your overdressed self, complementing your sense of style and taking you to your company on boarding with little fuss. The HR representative taught you about the company rules, and brought along with the workplace buddy to give you a tour and help you with your day to day. It was a nice way to get someone acclimated to the workplace, you thought, and your workplace buddy was a pretty good match for you.

 

Souyung Lee was a cool woman prone to quipping under her breath and seemed unlikely to put up with nonsense. She told you earlier that she hated when interns showed up dressed like they “woke up and smoked a bowl”, and seemed very interested in borrowing your hat. She asked that you call her Song before taking you down the hallway to your main work area.

 

“Better overdressed than underdressed,” Song told you as she strode down the hallway. You did your best to keep up - how did she walk so quickly in her gold spike heels? “You and I will bring some class to this place, anyways. I actually read your application packet - your writing is impressive.”

 

You blinked, a bit taken aback. “...thank you.”

 

“Of course,” Song replied, tossing some silvery hair over her shoulder. “You have a strong sense of how things should be spoken. We aren't as topical as your school's news show, but if you have a strong voice, writing is a lot easier. I think you'll make good pieces for Natasha.”

 

“The female lead anchor?” you questioned. This was a lot of information to take in - the first person you'd had an actual conversation with, and she seemed more than ready to throw you right into the mix. 

 

“We'll have a better sense after today,” Song admitted. “The morning is all punch-ups. After the show is done, we start prepping for tomorrow's. We missed most of punch-up, so today I'll teach you all about researching and get you in with the team. Oh, also…” Song made a face. “...you are never to buy anyone in this office coffee, okay? You're here to get experience, not be a maid.”

 

You couldn't help the huge smile that broke out on your face. “I'm so excited!”

 

Song rolled her eyes. “I'll ask you if you're still excited tomorrow.” Turning a corner, she pushed a door open, and revealed a long rectangular room, with one huge table in the center and deals with computers along every wall. A huge window let in early morning light, and one TV mounted on the right wall showed the morning’s episode of “Wake Up New York”. Anchors Natasha and Michael were talking to a guest about puppies, apparently. Quite a few people were huddled around one particular computer in the corner; instead of directing you there, Song took you to the main table, where a petite blonde woman and a very tall dark-haired man were pouring over a few sheets of paper.

 

“YN, this is Gina and Shaun. I have to find out what's going on over there,” Song said, “but they're going to get you started on an item for tomorrow.” Song strutted off again - she didn't walk, you noticed - leaving you to awkwardly take a seat. Unlike with Song, you were painfully overdressed with these two - Gina wore a simple shift dress with a cardigan, while Shaun paired his button down with nice jeans and an Adidas windbreaker. They didn't seem to mind, though, and greeted you enthusiastically.

 

Tomorrow's second hour piece was to be on road conditions, and Gina and Shaun had a much better grasp on the locale. You weren't sure if you were really contributing at all - you did give some notes on infrastructure across the country, courtesy of your phone, but when it came to structuring the piece, it seemed like all you were doing was disrupting the flow of work Gina and Shaun had going.

 

As the day wore on, the people at the table expanded, and Song returned to help guide you. You felt more comfortable with her. Maybe it was because she had faith in you. Maybe it was because she was just as dressed up as you. Maybe it was something else you hadn't quite worked out yet. But your second attempt with her and a few of the men in the room, a fluff piece (blurg) about the new end of summer fashions, went much better. You didn't need to know regions of New York City or the mayor’s name for this! Plus, it was fun to laugh at how hideous some of these “summer fashions” were.

 

After spending the majority of your day on that, Song and the other members of your Fashion Team (a nickname you mentally gave them but would never say aloud) offered to take you out for drinks at the end of the week. Though the sting of flunking on that first assignment wasn't going away, you felt at least relieved that you hadn't fucked up everything.

 

At the end of the day, everyone paired up to get taxis home. Song split the cost of a cab with you; she apparently lived only a few buildings away from you. 

 

“You did good work today,” she told you. “I think until you get a sense of the city, we can have you work on the fluff.” Song gave you a look. “If we ever need to report on national news, though. I will put you in.”

 

“...I get the sense that doesn't happen much,” you said. 

 

“It doesn't,” Song noted. “You and I, probably the only ones with any sort of experience there. I used to work for the Nightly News.”

 

You gaped at her. “...and now you do morning shows?”

 

“Better pay,” Song shrugged. “And no head writer bullshit to deal with. Me and Gina and Tevin, we're senior writers, but the anchors can still veto us. No one has too much power.” 

 

“...can I ask you something?” you questioned.

 

“Sure,” Song said.

 

“...how bad was it that I didn't help Gina and Shaun that much?” 

 

“It was your first day on the job and your second day on this side of the continent,” Song replied as the cab pulled up to her house. “You did very well. Do not sell yourself short.”

 

You both exited the cab and, with a wave, split up. Streetlights illuminated your path easily, and, before long, you were at the little coffee shop next door to your building. When you passed this morning, it was packed with people and seemed a bit too stressful to walk into; now, it was warm and inviting, sparsely populated and playing sweet jazz music.

 

You stepped inside, adjusting your hat as you glanced at the menu. Everything in the shop had a homemade feel, and as such, the menu was a chalkboard with plenty of erasure marks and changed items. You folded your hands together as you tried to find a warm drink. Something to push those memories of failing your first assignment aside… 

 

“If you're looking for a recommendation,” an English-accented voice offered, “the cider is excellent.”

 

“Thank you,” you said graciously, turning with a smile to face  _ holy fuck why did this just happen. _

 

Apparently John Fucking Oliver went to this coffee shop. You know, the one next to your new apartment in New York's historic carjacking district.

 

Since you wrote that ridiculous, awful, embarrassing drunken letter (which was coming back to you in a flood, by the way - if he asked for your name, you'd need a new identity quickly - why was the only name in your head Eva Gabor?!), he'd only gotten better at his work. He'd hosted The Daily Show in Jon Stewart’s absence last summer, something you watched breathlessly while working on your dissertation, and had recently started hosting his own HBO show, Last Week Tonight. You may have purchased HBO for your apartment solely to watch it.

 

And since you wrote that stupid fucking letter, you'd gotten a job writing about maxi dresses for a morning “news” show. Impressive. Definitely what you want to tell the man currently saving American satire.

 

“I just moved here, so I'm not really sure about much right now,” you managed to say. That… wasn't horrible! You didn't sound crazy! Which was your main priority, given that your brain was also now pointing out how much more handsome the man was in real life and not on your television screen. You were taking in a few too many details, and when he smiled, your brain forgot how to function entirely.

 

“Oh! Well, congratulations,” John said. “This coffeehouse is terrible in the morning, I'd advise not going anywhere near it.”

 

“I saw, it was absurd,” you agreed. You had to stop yourself from revealing that you lived next door; sure, he was cute, but you doubted that would leave a good impression. (Not that it would matter once he heard your name and remembered that you once waxed lyrical about his voice on paper.) “But if the atmosphere is as nice as the food quality, I can see why.” Wow, you didn't even sound like yourself. Your drive to not sound like an idiot was making you sound more formal than you'd ever been in your life.

 

“John,” he introduced, offering a hand to you. “Nice to meet you.” 

 

You, of course, stared at his hand for far too long (about two seconds) before taking it and giving up the ghost of being respected. “YN, nice to meet you too.” His hand was soft and his grip was firm and this was certainly not helping.

 

“So what brings you to… this particularly shitty corner of town?” John asked, evidently giving up the ghost of respectability himself. You smiled genuinely at the random burst of profanity. 

 

“It's what I could afford,” you admitted. 

 

“You live around here,” John inferred. “I'm sorry. Enjoy the constant siren noises and the cats in heat.”

 

“Do you live around here then?” 

 

“Used to. Now I just work around here.”

 

You'd done a very good job of not looking up where John's studio was, but maybe you should've thought to do a bit of research. Great. As if the letter wasn't enough, you -

 

...well, he hadn't mentioned the letter at all. Maybe it was promptly thrown out by a mail room attendant. Oh God, please have let that happen. Maybe there wasn't any reason to be worried about.

 

You did slip up, not asking what he did. To be fair, you'd seen his face of a fair number of bus adverts. You just wouldn't draw attention to it. “Huh. They managed to fit a studio around here?” Or you would. Just shrine this conversation in the Awkward Conversation Hall of Shame.

 

“Not well,” he responded blithely, evidently not bothered about you recognizing him.

 

You snorted before blushing and covering your mouth. “...I mean… it didn't seem like my workplace was well situated at all either. I…” Quick, don't say morning show. That won't impress him. Were you trying to impress him? “...I work at a news show -”

 

“Oh, which one?”

 

Goddamn it why was he speaking in normal conversational patterns?! “...Wake Up New York. It's not exactly hard-hitting…”

 

“Who cares?” he responded. “I like that one. It's what I watch when I want to stop feeling existential dread over the state of the world.”

 

You couldn't tell if that was a joke or not, but you did smile a little more naturally. “I'm not feeling great about it, honestly. I bombed pretty hard on my first assignment.”

 

“I mean, within two weeks of being in America, I broke my nose on-camera, so you're going to have to define -”

 

“Are you two going to order?” an irritated voice from behind you called out. Both of you glanced at the annoyed man behind them before shuffling off to the side.

 

You frowned awkwardly, crossing your arms. “Hope he's not my neighbor.”

 

“He probably is. Murphy’s Law. You were saying?”

 

For a moment, you forgot what he was talking about, but with a little “oh”, you got back on track. “Well… I'm an intern in the writers’ room. And they put me on a piece that was… intensely local? I moved here yesterday. I had no idea what to do, which… that's not how I like to do things?”

 

“...you and I have very different definitions of ‘bombed’,” John said with a laugh.

 

“You get it though, right?” you asked. “Strange place, new job, no idea what you're actually supposed to be doing?” ...did that actually come out of your mouth? Your face flushed again, and you looked back at the signboard. Cider sounded good. Or anything, really, you would need to get something to commemorate your first and last conversation with John Oliver.

 

John didn't say anything for a moment, and your embarrassment kept you from watching him. He finally spoke up when you resolved to cut things off. 

 

“That feeling never goes away,” John admitted.

 

You turned to him, letting out the breath you didn't realize you were holding. He looked at you and a look of mild panic crossed his face. “I'm not saying it doesn't get easier! It does. I promise it will. I don't know that I can promise that, but I will anyways, which might be a mistake -”

 

“ - I get what you're saying,” you cut him off. “Do you feel like you could be doing better?”

 

“Oh I know I could.”

 

“I find that hard to believe.”

 

“My show is basically depression pornography.”

 

“The people I now write for spend most of their show eating random cookery and lounging on a couch.”

 

“We should combine these two shows,” John suggested. “I could use a couch.”

 

“And morning shows can be a bit more real,” you offered. “We're onto something here.”

 

“We are,” he agreed, but you somehow got the feeling he wasn't joking about the Frankenstein mashup of your two shows anymore. “...let me buy you a drink.”

 

Your face went crimson. Oh Lord, not only had he somehow not read that letter, or couldn't remember, or blacked out the trauma of it, he  _ wanted to pay for your drink. _ Men only paid for drinks if they were -  _ Oh sweet Jesus. _

 

Your brain exploded at that point, and you didn't even protest, simply saying “thank you. That's really nice of you…”

 

“Hey, we just came up with the idea that'll change news forever,” John said. “The least I can do is buy you you a drink for your troubles.”

 

“This wasn't a trouble…” you said quietly.

 

“...well that's good to hear,” John said in an equally low voice that made your chest heavy. Your brain just kept asking “how”, over and over again, wondering if you were going to wake up from this dream anytime soon.

 

He went up to the counter with you, and you both ordered - you took his recommendation, something that made him smile. And when  the drinks were ready, he gave the cup to you in such a way that your fingers were forced to touch. Smooth. Or, at least, you thought it was.

 

“This cider is great,” you gushed once you took a sip. “Seriously, thank you. You didn't have to.”

 

John smiled, taking a sip of his own coffee. “I wanted to.”

 

You really didn't know how to respond to that, taking another sip of cider as you stared at him, trying to will your brain to respond. Thankfully, John picked up the slack in the conversation.

 

“So, I know New York can be a daunting place to live,” he began. “And there's a lot of little ways to make it easier that took me fucking forever to figure out.”

 

“Mmm?” you mumbled through a mouthful of cider. You swallowed inelegantly, wondering how on earth this conversation managed to last at all. “Such as?”

 

“...well, it might be easier if I… showed you?”

 

You thought your brain exploded before - Oh no,  _ now  _ your brain was exploding. And in your wildest dreams, you never imagined your combination of startling awkwardness and wide-eyed panic would lead to being asked out. That's what this was, you could tell from the light blush on his face and the way his voice was questioning whether or not you'd be okay with this. You clutched your cup like a safety blanket, trying to will yourself to believe this was actually happening. This was… this was amazing. No, it was terrible, he'd remember your name sooner or later, and then remember you for the crazy pervert you were.

 

But for now, he didn't. Maybe. What do you want, you asked yourself, what do you  _ want _ ?

 

“I would love that,” you finally said, the dorky smile on your face attesting rather well to that fact. The look of relief that burst onto his face made you smile wider - god, he was so attractive. And so nice! And you still didn't understand why or how this was happening. Maybe it was the hat. Shit, you were dressed very nicely. You had to look good for… whenever you did this. But not professional. Just good. Maybe Song would let you borrow - you barely knew Song and she was an Amazon compared to you. Fuck. Find a clothing store?

 

With a sudden burst of inspiration, you went into your purse, grabbing a pen and tearing off a piece of note paper from a small errand book you kept on your person. You never knew when you'd hear some sort of fact you could use in writing, after all. This… was not you writing down a fact. Quickly, you scribbled out your cell phone number before handing it to John.

 

“...I still don't really know what my schedule is at work,” you explained, “so I can't say for sure when I'm available, but I definitely want to do this.”

 

John smirked before taking the paper from you, pulling out his phone immediately to input the number. Wow. He didn't mess around. You shook that thought from your head.

 

“Social lives are hard to maintain in this industry, but we'll figure something out,” John said. “At the very least, we can at least attempt something after work.”

 

“Right.” You were a bit shocked to feel your phone buzz in your coat pocket, and you wanted to silence it if it was Mary or Megan -

 

But it was a text message from an unknown number.  _ Hello! This is John. _

 

You smiled, glancing back at him. “You don't mess around.” ...oh god you'd just said that. You winced a bit. “....I mean…”

 

“It's fine,” John waved it off with a grin. “If it doesn't bother you…”

 

“No, it's… refreshing,” you admitted before taking another drink to drown a potentially awkward conversation about exes and dating you didn't want to have with someone you just met, no matter how many times you'd swooned over him on TV. 

 

Your phone vibrated again, and for a moment you wondered how John managed to message you again - but it was Song, of all people.  _ U never messaged me that u made it to your apartment, u ok???  _ Followed by a worried emoji. Shit. It was getting late - you'd been here for almost thirty minutes now. 

 

“Everything all right?” John asked.

 

“I forgot to let my coworker know I got home,” you said honestly.

 

“Oh! Don't let me keep you,” John insisted. He moved to the door, and you followed, walking outside when he opened the door for you.

 

“I'll… I'll let you know when I know I…” you stammered out. How did you cut this off? Much as you knew you couldn't stay in that store all night, you wanted to. “...I'll text you.”

 

“I'll take your word for it,” John responded with a grin.

 

You smiled back. “It was so nice to meet you!”

 

“You too, YN.”


End file.
